Harry Potter and the Book of Changes
by SSVD
Summary: Before Hogwarts, Harry Potter finds comfort in a book. Timidly but unrelentingly, Harry works to become like the man he read about. His conviction is challenged when murder strikes at Hogwarts, in such a way that the act could not have committed with either magic or the mundane.
1. The Adventure of the Letters from No One

_For reference, this story won't be very long. Around 15 chapters at most, depending on how I decide to split it - I've also already finished writing it, so it's going to be updated fairly quickly. I posted this story a while ago, but accidentally took it down before I posted the end of it and thought it was lost forever. Alas, I found a backup of it today, so here we are._

* * *

Since he remembered, Harry's reading habits had been very light. The idea of losing himself within a world different from his own, as his teachers promised him reading would allow him to, seemed very appealing. But Harry could never quite get into any books. It wasn't that they were too difficult for him to understand―he was almost ten, and could read any of his school books without difficulty, just like the rest of his class.

It was just hard to get excited about anything when you lived with the Dursleys. Harry's only living family, they sucked out the fun from everything. It always seemed like it was going to rain even when the sun was bright outside. Besides, the Dursleys would never buy Harry anything, not even books. Harry knew to separate good days, when the Dursleys didn't do anything bad to him, from days that would never happen, when the Dursleys would do something nice for him.

Even so, or perhaps because he was aware of its impossibility, he couldn't help but daydreams that the Dursleys would acknowledge him a bit more, that they would not only stop yelling at him, but say nice things to him. Harry knew that they weren't very fair to him, but they were all he had. Sometimes he wondered if it was his fault, if he was really as bad as they said he was. He asked them multiple times about how he could change, but his Aunt Petunia always answered his question the same way: by explaining he was born a freak and nothing he did could change that. But even so, he still caught himself thinking about what he could do to change their opinions.

One of those times happened while he was in class.

"Does anyone want to volunteer to help me organize our books after class? Ah, how about you Harry?" she asked kindly at Harry, who had been staring out of the window. The other students, who didn't like him, giggled.

"I would love to," he said, trying to pretend he was paying attention, though it was obvious to everyone he wasn't. "But my family―they wouldn't like if I... ." Harry trailed off, hoping he didn't have to explain much.

"Then how about this?" his teacher asked. "You and I will go organize the books right now, and Lara will take over the rest of the class. How does that sound?"

Lara, the teacher in training, nodded enthusiastically at the notion of having a class all for herself. Harry didn't really have a saying on whether he wanted to help or not. Two minutes later, he was at the library helping his teacher organize the books before the term ended in four days. Placing books in their respective shelves wasn't hard, nor was it annoying when compared to the tasks the Dursleys made him do. For his lack of complaining, his teacher had a lot of shallow praises.

"You are a very good helper. Maybe I should ask you to help me more often," she said. Harry didn't reply. Then, with urgency in her tone, "Catch it!"

Harry noticed a book he had hastily put back on its shelf start to slide off of it. Harry had always had a keen instinct for catching objects, something that would one day be very useful when he started to play Quiddich, even if at that moment he still had no idea the sport even existed. His abilities would have allowed to catch the book before it fell and put it back on its shelf nine hundred and ninety nine times out of a hundred.

This was the thousandth time. The book slipped through Harry's fingers and it fell on the ground. He knelt down to pick up the book, and stopped himself to stare at the cover for a moment, sitting―though at the time he did not know―on the brink of his fate. His first glance was discouraging, for it portrayed what Harry had assumed to be a love a story. _A Scandal in Bohemia_ was printed in large, friendly letters. Underneath it, there were a few other titles, suggesting that there was more than one story in the book.

"Are you interested in the book, Harry?" asked his teacher, kindly.

"What?" he answered, surprised. How long had he stared at the cover for? "No―yes―I mean... ." Harry wasn't sure what to say. Would his teacher get angry if he said he wasn't interested in the book?

His teacher giggled. She gently picked the book off the ground and handed it to Harry. "Since you helped me organize our new books, why don't you keep this one for a while?"

"I...thank you," said Harry, not wanting his teacher to get angry.

When the day ended, he hid his book inside his bag as well as he could(what if the Dursleys didn't approve of him having a book to read?) and headed home. It was with an uneasy heart that he ate dinner. He wasn't used to having something to look forward to, even if only vaguely. Aunt Petunia seemed to have noticed this, and was sure to try to punish him for his positive mood by giving him less food than normal. Harry didn't complain.

That night, when Harry was inside his cupboard, he didn't know what compelled him to struggle with a flashlight he had borrowed from his teacher to read through the first story in the book. But he did read it, and once he had done so, he felt strangely interested. It had been an interesting story, but he wasn't hooked yet. It happened when he glanced at the next story's title.

 _The Red-Headed League._ That strange, almost bizarre combination of words skewered the mind of the nine-year old Harry Potter like nothing had been able to before, and opened the gates the Dursleys had worked so hard to keep it locked―the one that hid all of his excitement. Harry glanced down at the other titles. _The Man with the Twisted Lip,_ _The Adventure of the Speckled Band._ A sense of exhilaration Harry couldn't quite explain went through his head. Before he knew it, he had finished the entire book. He didn't know how long it took him to read it, but he didn't care.

If Harry slept at all, he simply went from one world of dreams to another. The next day, he came up to his teacher and asked if there were more books from the same author. The teacher, delighted, took him to the school library and helped him take as many books by that author as he could carry. Harry couldn't keep the books forever, of course, but he read them so often he had them practically memorized by the time he gave them back. He was obsessed with them.

Vernon Dursley wasn't an ideal role model. For the longest time, all Harry had as a role model was a vague idea of being as unlike the Dursleys as it was possible for him to be. He thought it was a little pathetic, but he had finally found an example to follow in the book he had just read. He met, for the first time in his short life, even if only in fiction, someone he wanted to be like. Someone who was clever and just―but not to a fault. Perfect in his imperfection, that man became the role model Harry never had.

That man who was so excessively tall he seemed even thinner than he already was. His face as flat―yet just as sharp―as a blade and his nose similar to the animal with eyes as acute as his, the hawk. The curved pipe, the deerstalker(which Harry would later discover he did not actually wear outside the book covers save for one story). The manner he moved around the room to get his magnificent brain functioning and then sunk his head against his chest to lose himself within his thoughts. The seemingly insane, yet overwhelmingly methodical way he examined a crime scene. His razor-sharp wit. His loyalty to the queen proclaimed with bullet holes on the wall, his musical talent proclaimed by his violin. And that figure that disappeared within the fog of nineteenth century London, with some nine-year old boy who had read about his adventures running after his dashing, shadowy figure, fighting against all odds...Harry had met Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

The change was immediate, but Harry doubted the Dursleys ever noticed it. They never paid attention to him if they could at all avoid. Harry became more confident, more sarcastic―or at least as sarcastic as a nine-year old could be. The biggest change in him was that their words didn't hurt him as much as they did before. They didn't make him doubt himself. Every time they sneered and mocked him, Harry, in the corner of his mind, asked himself what Holmes would think of that situation. That always helped him to make it all bearable.

The Dursleys could no longer trap him within a life of infinite boredom. It didn't matter if they didn't buy him anything, let him watch TV, or do anything fun. Whenever they tried to lock him in meaningless tasks, he found refugee in his mind. He practiced the art of deduction as often as he could. In the books, Sherlock had explained it, and Watson had elaborated on it, giving Harry a fairly good understanding of what it was supposed to be. Like an exact science, a person's clothes and habits would give you an accurate picture of what that person did the day before, perhaps even years before.

Of course, Harry wasn't as good as Sherlock. He was ten-years old now, but he still made many mistakes when trying to apply the art of deduction to people he knew. Once, he had mistakenly believed that Dursley had gotten mud on his shirt from a fight, when he had actually just tripped and fell. It was very hard to separate coincidence from fact. But he still did manage to deduce that Aunt Petunia had hurt her neck by trying to spy on the neighbours―something she punished him for, assuming he had done some "freaky business."

If the art of deduction was a "freaky business" as she referred to it, then he didn't mind being a freak. He didn't know for how long he would model himself after Holmes, but he was sure that he would remain a fan of his for his entire life. There was something in his methods that gave reason to the most chaotic, irrational things in life. Harry needed those reasons to remain happy. Everyone who came in contact with the Dursleys did.

"Get the mail, Harry," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper. He did not attempt to hide his ever growing contempt at Harry. He never did.

Harry didn't argue with him. He had learned, from observing his behavior, that the easiest way to live with the Dursleys was to obey them without saying a word. He learned to ignore his feelings, or at least to hide them. It was clear that Holmes thought that feelings interfered with rationality, but he did display them numerous times. So it was fine to have feelings, just not to let them interfere with your reasoning. Because of that, every time he felt like replying to the Dursleys, he kept his feelings under control.

The mail was a bit different from the usual. A postcard, a bill, and a letter to Harry.

Harry bit his lip. He couldn't let any sort of emotion show on his face. Many different reactions flashed through his mind, until he found one that was the most likely to succeed in the long run and decided to run with it. He slipped his envelope under his cupboard, then, without showing any sign of emotion, he returned to the breakfast table. The Dursleys didn't notice anything.

But inside his mind, Harry was excited beyond belief. Who could have sent him a letter? They knew he lived in a cupboard too, which further limited the list of potential senders. He had no idea who could have sent him a letter. Against his better judgement, with a tone as pathetic as he could muster, "Any letters for me?"

"Letters? For you?" Uncle Vernon laughed, seemingly amused at the idea, as he read through the mail Harry had picked up. "Who would want to talk to you? Nobody, that's who!" He laughed once more good measure.

Harry repressed a smirk. The Dursleys had no idea who would ever want to talk to him. That made the letter he received even more mysterious. Or to put it more accurately, Vernon Dursley did not know who would send him a letter. Harry caught the shadow of a concern showing on Aunt Petunia's fingers, gripping at her glass of water slightly harder than she should have. Was she even aware of her reaction? Harry observed her actions carefully. She frowned, apparently disliking what she thought. Then, she shook her head, indicating she was trying to stop thinking about something.

"What?" she asked, once she noticed Harry's stare.

"Nothing," he hurried to say. "I'm sorry."

She grumbled and went back to eating breakfast. That was a mistake. Harry needed to look at her for too long to deduce something out of her actions. Holmes could do it in a single glance. More importantly, he couldn't be sure of how accurate his deductions were. Guessing―no, deducing what people were thinking was one of Holmes' most impressive skills. Maybe Harry was overestimating himself. Holmes noted it was important to measure your own skills accurately.

With a sigh, he decided to wait until night to think further about the letter. It was a capital mistake to theorize before having all the facts. The important thing was to act normal and don't let the Dursleys notice he had received a letter, they would most likely confiscate it if they found out about it.

* * *

It was a similar feeling to when he first discovered that old book that contained the Holmes stories. For some reason he couldn't quite explain, he felt a sense of wonder and curiosity directed towards the envelope that nearly swallowed him whole. And that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to be swallowed whole, by the excitement of an adventure.

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

 _Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE_

 _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall,_

 _Deputy Headmistress_

Harry must have read the letter a thousand times. It was absolutely ridiculous. The only reason he gave it more than a passing thought was because the notion of someone, _anyone_ wanting to talk to him seemed almost just as absurd. He tried to look for other ways to interpret the words relating to magic, as if it was a code, but failed to find any sort of reasonable meaning in them.

What if wizard referred to a member of some sort of weird cult? Harry didn't know much about cults, in fact he wasn't quite sure what a cult really did, but he had heard Uncle Vernon talk about them disdainfully many times. Maybe his parents were part of a cult. That would explain why the Dursleys hated them, and Harry as well. Now that he thought about it, it didn't really make sense that his parents died in a car accident and Harry somehow survived without a single injury save for a scar, did it? What if something relating to this cult explained...no, nothing quite explained it.

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

 _UNIFORM_

 _First-year students will require:_

 _1\. Three sets of plain work robes (black)_

 _2\. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_

 _3\. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_

This was harder to explain away as being part of a cult. The list went on about books and equipments a wizard should have. It seemed far too specific to be a metaphor. The possibilities remaining were simple, though hard to test. The letter could be a prank, it could be a code, or it could be taken at face value.

It didn't seem like a prank. It seemed too carefully planned to have been one. The Dursleys would never waste that much time to make his life miserable, and Harry couldn't imagine anyone he knew(mostly because he didn't know anyone) playing a prank on him. Harry included the chance that someone was simply insane and believed to be telling the truth. He didn't know much about what made a crazy person crazy, so he skipped that option as he did not having enough data to form a theory on it.

It didn't seem like a secret code, although a code that doesn't look like a code is what every secret code should aim to be like. The only problem is that if it was written in code, then Harry should have been able to understand it without any help, which he certainly couldn't. If he needed help from the Dursleys, then there was no reason to send a letter hidden in a code. The main reason one would use a secret code when writing a letter to him would be to get it past the Dursleys. No, it did not make sense either.

Then Harry was left with the ridiculous option that the letter should be taken at face value. Maybe he really was a wizard. Holmes usually expressed disbelief toward the supernatural, but he had once said very clearly that if all options were exhausted, then it was logical to accept the supernatural explanation. The tricky thing, Harry thought, would be to find out when he had exhausted all other options. When would he have known that he had exhausted all that was impossible, leaving him with the improbable answer?

Picking up a broken pencil, Harry wrote out a quick response on the envelope.

 _Dear Professor McGonagall,_

 _I would be happy to be part of the school, but I frankly have never heard anything about wizards. Could you please explain the subject in a bit more detail to me?_

 _-Harry Potter_

It seemed extremely silly once he read it, but he couldn't quite discount the thought just yet. The feeling of adventure overwhelmed his sense of rationality―something Holmes frowned upon, but that Harry hadn't been able to quite master yet. This was his first real adventure. It would take a lot more practice before being able to master his excitement.

Without thinking, without even breathing, Harry sneaked out of his cupboard. What time was it? Three in the morning? It didn't matter. He turned the doorknob, trying to be as silent as possible. Then, he stepped outside the house.

What was he supposed to do now? Send the letter by mail? That sounded awfully unlikely. If magic existed, then they surely had a way to communicate outside of normal mail. They should even know that Harry was ready to answer their letter. They awaited his owl. What did that even mean?'

"Is owl code for something?" Harry asked himself.

At that moment, an owl came crashing down the skies and landed just on top of the Dursleys mail box. Harry's first reaction was to look back to make sure that hadn't woken up any of them.

His second reaction was to turn his head sideways, much like the owl did, then, sarcastically, "Well, _of course. When they said owl, they meant an owl."_

The owl took off without warning. There were many conclusions he could draw from what had just happened, but Harry didn't allow himself to draw any of them. There wasn't enough information yet. And he wouldn't commit a capital mistake.

Still, what mattered the most to him wasn't the possibility that something completely unreasonable was happening in front of him. If his perception of reality was wrong, then he would just have to change it. No, what kept him smiling as he went back to the cupboard inside the room was something far less rational, far less logical. Harry just thought that regardless of how this turned out, regardless of whether it was the work of a crazy person or if magic really existed, he would soon experience the adventure of a lifetime.

* * *

 _Just for clarification in case anyone is wondering - no, the story won't become a crossover at any point. The story is just about Harry being influenced by the book series, partially inspired by a famous Ellery Queen essay where he described the impact reading the Sherlock Holmes canon had on him as a person._


	2. The Adventure of the Mysterious Cat

Harry must have glanced at the window more often than he had ever done before in his life. He couldn't exactly _believe_ what he had seen, but it wasn't like he could just dismiss it either. There was far too many strange things for him to accept as a prank or as a coincidence, but not enough for him to just take it at face value, as much as he wanted to. His night searches yielded some results, but not enough to confirm anything. If only an owl would come from the window and sweep his worries away with undeniable evidence... .

But no owl ever came. Days went by as usual, and there was nothing that would hint toward Harry's upcoming adventures, unless you count the cat who seemed to follow him around every time he went outside to do something the Dursleys told him to, which Harry didn't. The sun was still high up in the sky, that was still as blue as ever, and ever still carried the same terrifying connotations Harry had grown used to―that he would be stuck with the Dursleys, who still ordered him to do the same menial tasks as always.

And Harry still had his books. He had worked really hard at school to win them as a prize. It was true that he could just check the books out from the library if he wanted to read them, but soon he would be going off to a secondary school. What if it didn't have the Holmes stories in its library? Every time Harry felt like he couldn't take living with the Dursleys anymore, he would escape to his cupboard and read until all his worries had left him. There was something about the way Holmes was so detached from human life that was just so inspiring for someone like Harry.

Holmes didn't just help Harry on an emotional level, but on a practical level too. One morning, he felt particularly hungry, but he knew the Dursleys wouldn't give him more food than it was necessary for him to survive, especially since he had sneaked out his cupboard last night to search for evidence proving the existence of magic. With that in mind, he turned to Dudley, and said, "You can't convince your parents of anything, can you?"

"What? Of course I can!" Dudley seemed offended at the implication that he couldn't control his parents. "Now keep helping me find my school stuff, I know I left it here somewhere."

"I bet you can't convince your parents to let me eat more breakfast," said Harry arrogantly. "If you could convince them of that, I would pack your entire schoolbag. But that's not going to happen."

Dudley then used his best crybaby face to convince his parents that Harry needed food. Their love for Dudley superseding their hatred for Harry, they promptly did so and Dudley smiled smugly as Harry handed him his backpack, packed the way Aunt Petunia would have wanted. While Harry appeared to be devastated, he was doing all he could to stop himself from burst out laughing. Like Holmes had said, some people do things they wouldn't normally do if they think they are tricking you. Harry could have offered to do anything Dudley wanted for a week and he wouldn't have helped him the way he did when he thought he was crushing his expectations.

At that moment, what Harry wanted more than anything else was to have a Watson―someone who would be there to praise him for his intelligence, even if he didn't think he was that intelligent. He caught himself glancing at the Dursleys as if he expected a reluctant approval from them, but found nothing but hatred emanating from their eyes. When Harry glanced outside the window and thought he had seen a look of approval from the _cat_ outside the house, he figured it was time to go to sleep. Harry had noticed that cat standing outside their window many times, and have even tried to escape the house at night to follow it multiple times.

The next day was Sunday, and Dudley left early with Aunt Petunia to visit some family member Harry had never heard of. Uncle Vernon stayed upstairs, asleep, and Harry was sent outside to clean the garden alone. It was actually kind of nice to be alone, when your only possible company was the Dursleys. Not that he was completely alone this time; the cat was still watching him.

Harry smiled at the cat, the cat smiled back, then he continued cleaning the garden. Harry turned back at once. _The cat smiled back?_ Cats didn't smile. Did they? Perhaps they did, Harry wouldn't know, he didn't get many chances to be in contact with animals. But there was no way a cat could have smiled like that. It seemed almost...human. Adding that to what he had found at night, it seemed like a logical conclusion, even if the outcome was completely illogical.

"You are not a cat, are you?" asked Harry. It seemed ridiculous, but he couldn't help himself from asking that. The letter, the owl, and now the cat. Plus his night searches. It all pointed toward a ridiculous conclusion that he couldn't believe, but very much wanted to believe in it. "What―who are you?"

The cat stared at Harry for a while. Then, with an unmistakable nod toward the Dursleys' house, it commanded him to open the door. Harry did so without questioning it. Uncle Vernon was still fast asleep on the second floor, and as soon as the cat entered the house, Harry closed the door behind it. Except the cat wasn't a cat anymore, but a fully grown woman, standing in robes that wouldn't seem out of place in a Halloween party.

Harry tripped and fell back in shock.

"I'm Professor McGonagall, from Hogwarts," she said delicately, ignoring Harry's surprise. "I received your letter, and came to investigate it as it caught me by surprise. I see you have...endured a lot over the years, living with this...family."

"Yes," Harry muttered, still unable to get over the fact he had just seen a cat transform into a woman.

A pause. And then, with a stern yet unmistakably kind voice, she asked, "Your reaction gives me a good idea of what I'm about to ask, but I must confirm this before we move on. Did you really mean what you said in your letter, Mr. Potter? Have you really never heard of magic before?"

"I'm sorry," he said in a quiet voice.

"You shouldn't be, it isn't your fault." There was something about McGonagall's tone that was hard to put into words. It was just as stern as the Dursleys, but at the same time, it seemed kind.

"WHO ARE YOU?"

Vernon Dursley was descending the staircase as fast as his incredibly heavy body allowed him to, his body shape making his legs look like he was a particularly furious tap dancer.

"WHO LET YOU INTO MY―"

It was likely that he intended to say "house" but Harry would never know for sure, because McGonagall raised a wooden stick at him without saying a word, her face just as stoic as it had been a moment before. "Mr. Dursley, I request your utmost silence unless you wish the Muggle police to come here, which would in turn require the police from our world to come here."

"Your world?" he said incredulously, looking at her as if she were his worst nightmare. "Your―no! I want nothing to do with your people!"

"Be that as it may, I believe Harry does."

"I don't care what he wants!"

"Obviously," she said dryly. "I'm afraid to say your opinion has as little value to me as Harry's has to you." She then turned to Harry. "I'm sure you must have a lot of questions, Mr. Potter, but I'm afraid they are going to have to wait just a while longer. Can you do that?"

Harry nodded weakly.

"HE'S NOT GOING!" screamed Uncle Vernon. "I―him―this―monstrosity won't be connected to my family! I won't allow it!"

McGonagall stared coldly at him, unflinching.

"I teach at the most respected academic institution in magical Britain, perhaps the entire world, Mr. Dursley. The Headmaster thinks my skills are of such quality that I'm qualified to teach future generations about how to use magic. With a flick of my wrist, I have transfigured a dragon's fangs into flesh. With the same amount of effort, I can make wood turn into metal. You are, in a sense, correct. Wizards and witches can be every bit as monstruous as you suggest, and I'm one of the most talented ones. And yet you stand before me, unarmed, waving rude words at my people and having severely abused not only an innocent child, but the saviour of the entire wizarding world. Do you really think your reputation or despicable morality is what you should be fearing for?"

For the first time, as far as Harry knew, Uncle Vernon was speechless. He still pointed his fat finger at her, furiously waving it as if he wanted to curse her existence, but no words came out of his mouth anymore, and his terrorized expression indicated even his bravado was fading.

"That was amazing," said Harry.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," she said, smiling.

A sudden thought overcame his admiration. "Professor McGonagall?" he called out hesitantly. "Did you...did you say I was the savior of the wizarding world?"

McGonagall bit her lip. It was clearly not a pleasant topic, but judging from her determined expression she must have prepared herself to discuss it.

"It is a hard subject to talk about, Mr. Potter. How much do you know about your parents?"

"They didn't die in a car accident, did they?" Harry asked. He was afraid of the answer, but he knew he had to ask it.

"No, they did not," she said kindly. She didn't seem surprised that he didn't know how his parents had died. "Not too long ago, there lived a dark wizard―nobody likes to say his name if they can avoid, it brings bad memories." She paused. "But you deserve to know it. _Voldemort."_ Her previously stoic face trembled slightly upon hearing the name. "He was more skilled than any other wizard alive, save for Hogwarts' headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. He killed many, many great wizards. Those were dark times, Mr. Potter."

"Did...did Voldemort kill my parents?"

"Yes," she confirmed, nodding sadly. "The mystery begins there, Mr. Potter. With you. He killed countless wizards, including your parents. But he couldn't kill you. Something in you, Mr. Potter, stopped him from killing. Something that crippled him forever. He might even be dead. There's no way to know for sure."

A green flash of light Harry had always thought of as his earliest memory flashed through his eyes. This time, it was more vivid. And the light wasn't the only thing he could remember from that night anymore. He remembered a cold, unsettling, disturbing laugh.

"I'm sure you must have many questions," McGonagall said weakly. The duty of explaining Harry's past was certainly not an easy one. "But I hope they can wait. First of all, we need to leave this house―"

"And don't come back!" Uncle Vernon cried out weakly.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Potter must come back to this house at the start of every summer," said McGonagall. "I'm sure he is far more unhappy with this arrangement than you could possibly be, Mr. Dursley."

Uncle Vernon grunted, but he didn't dare to respond. McGonagall sighed heavily, lowered the wooden stick Harry assumed to be her magical wand, and turned to Harry.

"Let's go, Mr. Potter. Do you think you could pack your belongings relatively quickly?"

Harry didn't ask where he was going―any place would be better than that house, so long as he was away from the Dursleys. He only needed a few minutes to pack all of his belongings, a few clothes and his precious books.

"Are you ready? Let's go then."

As Harry walked outside the house with McGonagall, he was overwhelmed with feelings he never knew he was capable of having. Nervousness, uncertainty―happiness? He didn't fully understand what was happening, but he couldn't help but smile.

"Are you alright, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes," he answered quickly.

"Sometimes, students have trouble believing in magic. I understand that the cultural shock must be tremendous. Do you need time to take it all in?"

"No. Really," he added when he noticed McGonagall didn't believe him. "I'm fine."

He wasn't used to having someone worrying about him.

"Well, you certainly don't look scared."

"You don't look scary," said Harry.

"Some of my students would disagree with you," she said, smirking. "But I suppose compared to...I'm sorry, I mustn't speak of your family this way."

"No," he said. "That's fine. They are horrible."

They crossed an intersection in silence, despite the awkward looks shot at McGonagall's emerald robes that stood out from the crowd like Uncle Vernon in the middle of a marathon. She likely wasn't prepared to visit Harry that day, but was forced to do so when he guessed she wasn't a cat. Once they had found an isolated corner where nobody could see them, she checked once more to make sure nobody could hear them.

"You are very accepting of new information Potter," she said. "I must admit I'm surprised. Most Muggle-born students show at least a little bit of skepticism when dealing with magic."

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," Harry said, quoting from memory. "I can't find an explanation...no, I don't think there's an explanation for you to have turned into a cat and then back into a human being. So even if magic existing sounds improbable, everything else is outright impossible," he mumbled, afraid of sounding dumb as he spoke. "So magic needs to exist."

Far from finding him dumb, McGonagall seemed impressed. "Do you have any questions, Mr. Potter?"

"A lot," he said. "But I think it's better if I only start asking them after I try to answer them myself."

"A wise choice," said McGonagall approvingly. "May I ask you a question then?"

"Sure."

"How did you know I wasn't a cat?"

"It was just a guess," said Harry, looking down as he spoke. McGonagall was a nice person, but she seemed so strict he was a bit afraid of meeting her eyes.

"It seemed far too precise to be a guess, Mr. Potter."

"Well, there were one or two things that helped my guess." He hesitated. "I knew magic could be real since I got the letter, and since I couldn't find any reasonable way of explaining the magic owls who knew when I had to deliver a letter, I decided to look for evidence that magic existed. Not the best way of handling things but I didn't have anything else to go on."

McGonagall looked at him encouragingly. He took it was a sign that he was to continue with his deduction.

"I noticed that a cat was following me around at times. At night, I escaped my cupboard and went to look for that cat."

"You escaped your cupboard," she repeated, squinting her eyes as if that would allow her to understand what he said better, "to look for the cat?"

"Yes."

"I apologize, that must have been a waste of time for you. I only watched you for a few hours during the day."

"Not really. I didn't find you, but I found your footprints. It was hard to see them at night, but I had my flashlight―it's broken now, thanks to Dudley―and looked for it. I got mud all over me, but eventually I lost track of the cat's footprints...as they turned into a person's footprints."

"Dear God, Mr. Potter. You were out at night _alone?_ Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Moreover, what about your...family? What would they have done to you if they found out?"

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "And they did find out. I was covered in mud when I came back and didn't get to eat until dinner."

McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, and closed it again. Then, after some deliberating, she asked, "Why did you feel the need to do that, Mr. Potter? You were bound to get an answer from me eventually. Did you really need to know the truth that badly?"

"Yes," he answered immediately, but soon regretted answering so quickly. Was thirst for knowledge the reason Holmes studied so much? No, that wasn't it, and it wasn't his reason either. "No, that's not it. I mean I did need to know," he admitted. "But I didn't want to know for the sake of knowing. I wanted to know because it was fun. Because it was an adventure."

McGonagall pondered his reasoning for a second, then smiled kindly at him. "You really are your father's son, Mr. Potter. Far too intelligent for your own good."

Harry didn't know what to say. It was the best compliment he had ever received in his entire life.

"Now," said McGonagall, glancing once more to make sure no Muggles were watching. "I will apparate us out of here. I still have to visit another student's family today, and I hope you don't mind coming along."


	3. The Adventure of the Other Student

"Are you feeling fine, Mr. Potter? This can be quite disorienting at first," asked McGonagall.

"I'm fine—really," he added upon seeing her dubious expression. "I feel a bit dizzy but—but we used magic!"

Harry surprised to find that his remark wasn't met with a stern look, but rather with one of approval. From the little he had seen of her so far, McGonagall seemed like an extremely warm person, only she wasn't very fond of showing that side of her, as demonstrated by the fact that less than a second later her approving glance had been replaced by a serious stare.

"Mr. Potter, we are about to visit one more Muggle-born student. Some students and parents might take a while to accept magic. I will understand if you would like to be somewhere else while I—"

"No," said Harry quickly. "I don't mind being here."

McGonagall seemed slightly suspicious of his motives, but didn't question him further, for which Harry was very glad. Though he didn't want to admit, he was very curious to see how other people would react to magic, and deep down, he was really excited to meet somebody his own age who was _like him._

"Before we go, I suppose I must do something about my clothes," said McGonagall thoughtfully, changing her clothes from emerald robes to a more normal outfit with a touch of her wand. Harry noticed her satisfaction at his dumbfounded expression when she transfigured her clothes, but neither of them said anything.

Before long, they stood before a house that looked not much different from the Dursley residence if not for one very important factor. It wasn't the Dursley residence. That alone made the house look so different, so much happier, that it was hard to even notice its physical resemblance to the place Harry dreaded so much.

With one more glance at Harry to make sure he didn't want to stay anywhere else, McGonagall sighed deeply and knocked on the door. Immediately there was a sort of uproar from behind the door, which lasted until a woman said, "Just a moment!" This moment turned out to be nearly five minutes, whereupon a couple came to the door, sporting welcoming expressions that just barely failed to mask their worries, though Harry wasn't sure if McGonagall cared about their uneasiness.

"Professor….McGonagall? Please come in," said the man, with a flawless smile of perfectly white teeth. He had leaned his head outside the door, close enough to them that Harry could feel the man's breath. Then, taking notice of Harry, "And this is—?"

"One of Hogwarts students, he is accompanying me for the time being," responded McGonagall promptly.

"Ah yes, a student," said the woman, with an equally perfect smile, and with a hint of concern in her voice.

When Harry and McGonagall had sat down on comfortable chairs beside an unlit fireplace, he noticed the reason for the way the couple sounded concerned. They were measuring McGonagall to try to understand if she was a complicated joke someone was playing on them or if she was dangerous. Harry supposed having an unknown child with her made them lean toward the second option. He wished he could warn McGonagall of how they were reacting, but he soon found out that would have been useless. This was not her first time doing something of the sort.

"I understand you must have many questions," said McGonagall in a serious, official tone. "This must come across as unusual, even impossible to you. So please, ask anything that you are not sure of."

"We do have many questions," said the woman kindly, serving tea to her visitors. As she did so, Harry noticed a strong sort of smell coming from her mouth—not bad breath, but rather the opposite. It struck him as odd, and something took his eyes to the dining table, where each plate was still laid with half-eaten steak. _They must have not really thought McGonagall was going to come…they were eating lunch when we knocked on the door._ "You are, a professor from a school of, erm—magic?" asked the man kindly.

McGonagall nodded, and the man sat thoughtfully for a moment. He glanced at his wife, who returned his smile, which prompted him to say, "I hope you don't take offense to our skepticism."

"Absolutely none," said McGonagall. "May I ask you to bring your daughter here? I believe it would be better if she were present for the following part."

"The following part?" said the woman sharply, yet kindly. "Are we going to have the pleasure to see magic?"

Harry noticed the woman didn't answer McGonagall's question on purpose, she wanted to avoid bringing her daughter there until they were sure whether this was a friendly prank or a possibly dangerous and crazy woman.

"Yes," said McGonagall. "I'll turn into a cat."

Before the couple had a chance to laugh, McGonagall's body transformed into a cat right before their eyes. Harry was startled by it, still not used to it, but the couple was far more shocked than he was. The woman's hand instantly moved to her chest, as if she were holding her heart in place, while the man's eyes almost jumped out of his face as he sunk so deep into his couch Harry wondered if the couch would ever be able to completely erase the man shaped hole in it.

McGonagall turned back into a human(provoking a lesser, but similar reaction from the two), and said, "I apologize for the shock, but I figured it would be the least painful way to go about this."

"Yes, quite," agreed the man, puffing like he had just run a marathon. "I—I'll get our daughter, you are right, she needs to hear—see this."

Yet, the man didn't go upstairs to get her. He stayed in place for a moment, then tried to push himself to his feet. His legs didn't respond. He was in shock. Acknowledging his weakness, he muttered something nobody could hear, but that his wife could guess, causing her to gently put her arm on his shoulder, and say in a weak tone, "Louder, honey."

The man tried muttering again, this time a bit louder, but still not enough. Then, with more encouragement from his wife, his next sentence was loud enough to be heard upstairs. "Hermione, come down!"

A girl came running down the stairs, apparently just waiting for her chance to join the conversation. She had bushy brown hair, unusually large—yet spotlessly clean—white teeth and an attitude that she carried in her walk that said she had quite a high opinion of herself. She didn't say a word or inquire about the situation. Instead, she sat in the couch between her parents, then glanced at Harry, McGonagall, the room and finally her parents.

"Hermione, that prank we mentioned, it—it wasn't a prank."

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione laughing, but Harry could tell she was curious.

"Allow me to demonstrate what I mean, Mrs. Granger," said McGonagall.

During the next few minutes, McGonagall demonstrated a few different spells which Harry was glad to see. He wanted to look at Hermione's face to try to see how she would react to it, but he soon found himself lost looking at the different spells McGonagall showed, in complete wonder of it all. After the demonstration was over, he heard McGonagall explain things about Hogwarts just as she had done to him a few moments before.

"I'm sorry about our earlier, erm, skepticism," said Mr. Granger. "This whole magic thing, it's just not something we deal with in our profession very often."

"Naturally. Do not worry, I understand," said McGonagall as if brushing away the thought that their skepticism was anything but to be expected. "May I ask you what your profession is?"

"They are dentists or doctors," said Harry. "Probably dentists."

They all turned their eyes to Harry, who quickly regretted having said anything at all. Noticing that no one would let up their stares until he said something, Harry tried to muster up the courage to say something, but it all seemed so incredibly silly when he put it into words that he felt afraid to voice them. Thankfully for him, Hermione broke the silence.

"Did you use magic?" she asked excitedly.

"Did you, Potter?" asked McGonagall sternly.

"I—no," he hurried to say. "I don't know how to use magic, it's just that..."

"Just that what?" asked Hermione.

"Well, your parents," he said, glancing at the Grangers, "were very calm and didn't show any signs of fear." He stopped. If he wanted to make any sort of sense, he would have to be as objective as possible.

Harry cleared his throat, adopted the most serious expression he ever had, and began his explanation. "Here we were, Professor McGonagall and I, at the doorstep of your house to attend a meeting with your parents regarding a school of magic. Your parents were thinking about it because your father was gripping the letter firmly in his right hand which showed he was concerned about it, but still appeared very welcoming when we came in. Your parents carried themselves with a certain amount of dignity and talked with a professional tone, which meant they were used to keeping people calm in their profession." This was, Harry knew, very similar in reasoning to a deduction Holmes had made, but with an entirely different conclusion. Thus he knew he wasn't doing much more than justifying a lucky guess. Yet, a childish sort of pride prompted him forward. "They were clearly afraid, but they still smiled and well, um, dentists are very good at smiling regardless of what they are doing. This could be pretty much anything, but their breath was…well, excellent."

"Are you saying only dentists have good breath?" asked Mr. Granger, appearing somewhere between amused and professionally offended.

"No, but…" Harry trailed off and timidly pointed at the unfinished meal. "I think only dentists would stop lunch, brush their teeth then come to see people knocking at their door." In fact, Harry doubted even most dentists would go to such lengths.

"What else, Mr. Potter?" said McGonagall. She seemed extremely interested in what Harry had to say, and this was something he enjoyed greatly. This had never happened to him before.

"Well, that's it. It…seemed like it could be the case, that's all." He shrugged uncomfortably. He didn't like having to base his deductions on chance, but he had to take what was handed to him. "This meant they were involved in a profession that involved both handling chemicals and keeping people calm while making a good impression. So doctor or dentist," he said in a low voice. "They could have been nurses too now that I think about it."

"That's amazing," said Mr. Granger, sounding very honest. "Are all wizard kids like that?"

"No I—I didn't even know I was a wizard until a moment ago," said Harry defensively. Years had taught him to treat praise like cheese on a mousetrap.

"Mr. Potter is a special case," said McGonagall.

"Special?" asked Hermione curiously. "How is he special?"

"Mr. Potter is quite famous in our world," she responded, without losing her serious tone.

"Why?"

"Hermione!" her mother scolded, fearing her to have been too rude.

"It's not a problem," said Harry quickly, not wanting the girl to be yelled at too much for that. "I didn't know myself until a few hours ago. I just—I—"

Harry didn't quite stop himself, but he couldn't quite spit the words our of his throat. It wasn't that it hurt to talk about it, he couldn't remember it, but it still made his stomach turn for some reason. McGonagall took notice of this and intervened.

"It is a complicated matter that I feel would be untactful to discuss in front of Mr. Potter. If you are interested, reading up a few books on our history should ease your curiosity. In addition you will be receiving ambassadors to introduce our world to you. You may ask your questions then."

Hermione and her parents stared at Harry for a second. Harry wished they wouldn't do that. It made him feel weird.

McGonagall then explained that she would be back in a week to take Hermione and her parents to buy everything she would need for school. After a while longer talking about the school, they bid each other farewell. Harry watched the family wave at them until they could no longer be seen.

"Yes, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said thoughtfully, "unfortunately, I'm afraid you must still live with your...family."

"I understand."

"But you don't need to stay with them for the rest of this summer, at least," she said hesitantly. "I feel partially responsible for any negative feelings they might have toward you for now, Mr. Potter. Would you like to spend the rest of the summer in my house?"

"I would love to!"

* * *

Life with McGonagall was surprisingly pleasant, especially when compared with living with the Dursleys. Harry had his own room, which was far more comfortable than the cupboard he was used to. The house itself took a bit of getting used to, full of magical artifacts here and there.

Harry could barely believe the things he saw every day. Owls coming through the windows, magical items on the shelves, and most importantly, so many books about the magical world. He took note of a few pictures on a few shelves, all featuring the same young witch. McGonagall gave Harry full permission to read any books he wished, for which he was very glad, but she warned him he would likely not understand what any of them said.

That was fine, he thought. Sherlock wouldn't be intimidated by a challenge. On the contrary, he would welcome it! Therefore, so would Harry. The books were as incomprehensible as McGonagall had warned him, but he did not mind in the least. He inserted the information inside his head, even if he didn't understand it. Holmes had said that only a fool put information he did not need inside his head, but Harry felt knowing about magic would be useful one day. More importantly, even if he wouldn't admit to himself, at that moment, seeing the wonders of magic for the first time, he was a bit of a fool.

"Would you like to go to your house one more time before leaving for Hogwarts?" McGonagall asked one morning.

"No," said Harry. He really didn't want to see them at all if he could avoid. "I really don't."

McGonagall seemed uncertain as to how to proceed, but nonetheless, she hesitantly did so. "Isn't there anything you would like to take with you to Hogwarts?"

"No—really," he added, as McGonagall shot him an inquisitive look he was now used to. "I don't really have anything besides my books and they are already with me, so... ."

A pause. Then—"Mr. Potter, would you please tell me what's on these books? They seem very important to you."

Harry did not expect that question, but in retrospect, he should have. McGonagall had raised an eyebrow multiple times when he sat on the couch reading _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._

"It's a story about a detective—a detective who solved crimes," he said weakly. He felt like he was being interrogated, and this made him unable to come up with a better response.

"Could I read those books sometime, Potter?"

Harry got the impression that she thought there was something wrong with him, and that perhaps she wished to find out the details by reading those books. While he should have been worried, he was instead very much excited.

"Of course!"

The reason for his excitement was simple, though he didn't expect McGonagall to understand. Once you get a taste of Holmes' adventures, you can't help but wish that everyone you know can appreciate them the same way you do. Harry even caught himself wondering if the Dursleys had ever read it. Probably not, he doubted any of them cared about books.

"Professor, may I ask you a question as well?"

"Go ahead."

"That picture," said Harry, gesturing at a portrait of a young witch with scarlet robes holding a broomstick. "Is flying possible?"

To Harry's surprise, McGonagall smiled. "Yes, very much so. Wizards use broomsticks to fly, Potter. We fly for transportation, but we also fly to compete in sports. Quiddich is the most popular magical sport, and I must mention that Hogwarts has a very good Quiddich program."

"A sport where you fly on broomsticks?"

"Are you interested, Potter?"

"I—a little," he admitted.

McGonagall's expression changed as though a light bulb had been lit over her head.

"Would you be interested in a Quiddich camp then?"

"A Quiddich camp?"

"A former professional player holds a three-day Quiddich camp for Muggle-Born students before Hogwarts starts. It's a largely fruitless endeavour, since not many Muggle-Born students have that much interest in a sport they have never heard of, but he and his son are both rather enthusiastic of the sport." She sighed heavily, in a way that indicates she both thinks little of the sanity of those people, and that she wouldn't have it any other way. "In any case, would you like to attend the camp? It would be a good way to learn about the magical world."

"I would love to!" answered Harry excitedly. Then, with a suddenly negative voice, remembering what should have been haunting him ever since he learned he was a wizard, "But I don't have any money. How—how am I ever going to study in Hogwarts?"

"Don't worry, Potter. Your parents left you a considerable amount of money which should be more than enough to take care of your studies and beyond. Is that settled, then?" she asked with a tone that did not sound like a question. "Then I shall see to the formalities."

* * *

 _For reference: setup is mostly done. Balls-to-the-wall mystery starts next chapter._


	4. The Adventure of the Mistaken Stone

To the murder of Professor Sprout, and later the equally inexplicable declaration of theft towards the philosopher's stone, many fantastical words could be applied—all of them valid. Though magic couldn't have been involved in the crime, magic also had to have been involved. From the most grizzled young veteran in the ministry to the most gossipy woman in Hogsmeade, no one could offer an explanation as to how it might have happened. There was only one point everybody agreed on.

It couldn't have happened, yet it did. For the murder to have happened, the criminal had to not only be able to cast magic despite not being able to but also be able to cast spells through solid walls. Though contact with magic naturally diminishes one's fear towards the unknown, even pure blooded wizards found a chill going through their spine, wondering that if they were to pull over that hood, they would see a fantastical wizard with powers to rival Voldemort's or the devil himself, whichever one was worse.

It must be stated, for the sake of fairness, that Harry's stay at the Quiddich camp would play a huge part in the development of the impossible events to follow thereafter. Therefore, for those who wish to shred the impossible as they experience it, close attention is recommended.

The days that preceded the Quiddich camp were surprisingly uneventful. As much of a culture shock as it had been, it was surprisingly easy to adapt to anything after living with the Dursleys. McGonagall was strict, but though she didn't show it often she had a human side that made the few weeks Harry had spent with her the best of his life.

Still, even though he had never been happier, he still found himself getting more and more nervous as the Quiddich camp approached.

"Do you really want to go to the Quiddich camp, Mr. Potter?" asked McGonagall one day, when they were sitting by the fireplace.

"Of course—I just..." Harry trailed off, and McGonagall didn't question him further.

McGonagall never questioned him further, nor did she try to push him towards a particular decision. She gave him the facts and would, once upon a blue moon, give her opinion about it. But that was it. It felt like she looked down on giving advice, as though it was stricter to give him freedom than anything else.

At first, Harry loved his new freedom and ability to decide on what to do with his life—but he soon found himself wishing that McGonagall would tell him if he was doing something wrong, because he really didn't know. That's not to say McGonagall didn't enforce rules, because she did. Harry had to sleep by ten and wake up before eight; dinner was always served at eight thirty, the list went on. But she left it to him to figure out the purpose of those rules.

Harry wasn't fully aware that it was the day the Quiddich camp started up until he heard McGonagall knock on a strangely large wooden door. Harry took a deep breath, suspecting(though he didn't have a reason to) that it would be the last relaxing breath he would be able to take for a while.

The door swung open—no, it was slammed open, with such violent force that it seemed almost magical that it didn't break, which seemed perfectly plausible. Two figures appeared before them, with a healthy amount of space between them. Harry didn't question the reason behind the separation; the reason was clear to anyone who stood before them. The two were the kind that carried an atmosphere with them, the kind that made everybody around them focused and energetic about a goal.

And they were both smiling like they had just conquered the world.

"Ah Professor McGonagall!" exclaimed the younger of the two, rubbing his hands together. "I knew I could count on you to find us a recruit. With this much love for the sport...and I'm not one to judge based on blood, but considering—"

"Considering you are James' soon," said the other, older one, "then I think it's fair to expect that—"

What they were expecting of him, Harry did not know, because at that moment McGonagall cleared her throat with the harshness of one who wants to remind others of proper manners.

"Mr. Potter, those are Oliver Wood, a fifth year student from Hogwarts, and his father, Henry Wood."

"I played with your father in Hogwarts," said Henry, with a bit of an apologetic tone. "Great player—if only You-know-who hadn't done what he did, he would probably have led England to a few world cups by now."

He shook his head bitterly, as though he was more bothered by Voldemort's effect on Quiddich than by Voldemort itself. There was, Harry thought, a disconnected quality to him and Oliver. They never seemed fully aware of anyone, they seemed to see them only in terms of how they related to something else.

"In any case," said McGonagall, with a half smile, "I'll take my leave now. I'll come back to pick you up in three days, Mr. Potter. I believe we still need to go to the diagonal alley."

McGonagall shot Harry a sympathetic, almost apologetic look as she left. When she did leave, Harry found out why. After a few very brief minutes being shown where he would sleep, Oliver grabbed him by his wrist and dragged him out of the house and into the backyard.

It seemed silly to call it a backyard, but that's what it was. It must have been as large as a football field, but it seemed completely empty. There was no paint marking the end of the territory. Rather, everything surrounding the oval shaped field was covered by a dense forest, while the field itself seemed almost like the Dursleys garden, but much larger. It gave the impression of standing inside a very deep hole.

"Feeling nervous?" asked Oliver Wood, with an excited tone that seemed to treat such condition as a mythical being.

"A little," said Harry. "I don't know the rules to Quiddich or anything like that."

"Don't worry, that's why you are here! I'm sure you'll pick it up in no time. It's not that hard to understand, even if it's a little hard to master."

Harry opened his mouth, but closed it again immediately. He wanted to say what had been haunting his mind ever since he found out he was a wizard, that he wasn't going to be as good as anybody else. Yet, there was something about Oliver Wood's energetic attitude that prevented him from saying so.

"What is it? Something bothering you?" Oliver assumed a more serious tone. "First rule of Quiddich, never hide anything from whoever is teaching you. That's how bad habits get started, and those can end careers."

"I was just thinking that..." Harry trailed off, but upon realizing the thought of diverting his stare never crossed Oliver's mind, he continued. "I was just wondering how long it usually takes for people who come to this camp to pick up on the rules."

"Ah, that. Well you are sort of our first student Harry. In fact, I'm pretty sure we wouldn't ever have a student if you hadn't joined. I really have to thank McGonagall for that."

Harry didn't respond, but he swallowed silently. The lesson began soon after, and it wasn't like anything Harry could have anticipated. It was easy, it was fun, it was _wonderful_. He had dreamed of flying more than anything else since he had found out about being a wizard, but he had also had more nightmares about it than about anything else. To find out that it was so easy was so refreshing, so amazing that he couldn't help but wonder if it was fine to be this happy.

"Perfect," said Henry, alternating between shaking his head with satisfaction and laughing quietly to himself. "I'll go ahead and prepare dinner—you two rest a bit over there."

Harry barely had time to rest before Oliver Wood dismounted from his broom, and came rushing over to him.

"That was brilliant! I had some expectations but never in a million years...Harry, you absolutely must come to Gryffindor."

"To _what?"_

"It's one of Hogwarts houses," said Wood in a hurried tone, closing his eyes and shaking his head slightly. "There are four of them but Gryffindor is the best. And it's my house too. Harry, I have never seen somebody like you before. It's incredible. If you join Gryffindor, we can definitely win the Quiddich cup."

"What do I have to do to join? Do I need to pass a test or—"

"The Sorting Hat decides what house you go to. Just do your best to think about Gryffindor when you put the hat on."

Harry didn't know what the Sorting Hat was, but Wood was the kind of guy that made asking questions a rather unpleasant thing to do.

"Can really I just decide what house I'm going to like that?"

"I have no idea," said Wood promptly. "But McGonagall would like if you went to Gryffindor. Gryffindor is her house, you know, and she really wants us to win the cup."

That, more than anything Wood had said, got Harry's attention. He couldn't quite believe that he was as good as Wood was making him out to be, but if there was any chance at all of, in some small way, paying back McGonagall for everything she had done for him up to that point...it was worth a shot.

"I'll do it," said Harry, somewhat quietly. "I'll try to enter Gryffindor, I promise. And I do, I'll also do my best to help the team win."

"That's the spirit!"

Wood punched the air as though to celebrate, then fell backwards against the grass and stared out into the setting the sun. Harry considered following his action, but wasn't fond of the idea of hitting his head against the ground so suddenly. Instead, he just sat up besides Wood, and as he did so, a sudden idea overcame him.

"Wood?" asked Harry, with some uncertainty.

"Yeah?"

"Why do you love Quiddich so much?"

The question came out so automatically, so naturally, that Harry couldn't immediately link it to Wood's reaction. Wood's face remained frozen for a few seconds, like he wasn't able to process what was being asked of him. Then, after a few moments in silence, he nodded satisfactorily to himself.

"Three things, really. One, it's the best sport in the world. You can't disagree with that, can you?"

"Of course not," Harry hurried to say, as it looked like Wood would yell at him if he said otherwise.

"Two, it's my dad. He used to be a professional player, you know? But he had to retire due to an injury."

"Couldn't you just use magic to heal him? I thought that magic could heal most things."

"The issue Harry, was with the placement of the injury." Oliver lifted his index finger and pointed to his own head. "A Quaffle hit him in the eye a long time ago. Ever since then, he can't help but flinch when they come flying to him. His reaction time went way down after it, like he hesitates. No physical injury, you see, but it's a death sentence for a goalie."

"It must have been tough on him."

"It was." For a very brief moment, Wood sighed. It seemed like he hadn't considered that point very often himself."But in any case, the last one. It's the thrill, Harry. The thrill of having a good rival, a good match, and still come out as the winner. Do you know what I'm talking about? It's sort of hard to put it into words, but..."

"I understand," said Harry. Wood's enthusiasm reminded him of Holmes, in a way. They both loved the game. The only difference was that "the game" meant different things for them, but they both made "the game" into their reason for living.

"Really?" Wood was the kind of person who never contained his emotions. He blinked multiple times and made no effort to hide his immense surprise. "It's sort of hard to explain, didn't really think you would get it. Not many people do. How do you understand it?"

Harry told him so.

"A book, huh?" Wood pondered that for a moment. "Sounds like a good book, even if I'm not much of a book person. I'll try to read it sometime."

Harry doubted this would happen, but did not voice this concern. Wood's interest in Holmes was enough.

* * *

"How was the Quiddich camp, Mr. Potter?" asked McGonagall, as they walked through the streets of London."

"It was...interesting." It was the most honest answer he could come up with.

"I was afraid you would find the Woods to be rather overbearing, but fortunately that doesn't seem to have been the case."

"They were a bit too much to handle at times," admitted Harry. "But still, it was so...fun. I liked doing that."

Harry could swear he saw the shadow of a smile pass through McGonagall's face, but a few minutes later, that question was completely gone from his mind. There was simply no space in it to think of anything but what he was seeing right at that moment.

"Welcome, Mr. Potter, to the Diagon Alley," said McGonagall, but Harry was barely listening. It was like the world he had always dreamed of. The streets, the stores, they all seemed to belong a few centuries back, when Holmes ran through the thick fog, chasing after another adventure. But the fantastical things before him were not compatible with Sherlock's time.

Everywhere he looked, he found a sign of magic. Magical pets, magical books, flying cauldrons, old men with long robes and pointed hats. It was like had stepped into a world of wonder, a world that he belonged in.

And he couldn't quite believe it.

"I understand that it all must seem a bit shocking, but please remember we have to move on."

"Of course Professor McGonagall," said Harry promptly.

But he couldn't stop himself from gawking at some of the most fantastical items, despite his best attempts at moving past them. To his surprise, McGonagall did not attempt to hurry him as much as he thought she would.

Their first stop was Gringotts, the only bank of the wizarding world. Harry was sort of hesitant about entering it. What if, when he opened his parents' vault, he found out the Dursleys had taken it all? Would McGonagall shake her head and say he couldn't go to Hogwarts anymore? Would he had to go back to a normal, non magical life? Would—

"Oh, what a wonderful surprise!"

A slightly fat witch ran up to them, and Harry's first thought was that her fingernails would give Aunt Petunia a heart attack. The witch and McGonagall exchanged greetings for a bit, and then turned to Harry.

"This must be Harry—"

"Yes," said McGonagall, cutting her short. She then looked over her shoulder, but not without discretion. "We are trying not to attract much attention, so I would appreciate if you didn't say his name out loud, Pomona."

"Of course, of course! I understand. Just be sure to say hi to Quirrel, he's having a drink by the Leaky Cauldron and has been mumbling to himself something about seeing you and Harry nervously." She paused to consider this for a moment. "Then again, he's always nervous."

McGonagall smiled at Harry. "This is Professor Sprout. She is one of Hogwarts best teachers, and I'm sure you'll give her no trouble as a student."

McGonagall shot Harry a look that said "Or else."

"Minerva, there's no need to scare the boy!" Professor Sprout looked at Harry kindly. "Would you like to see something interesting?"

"I—sure!" Harry tilted his head to the side. "But what is it that you want to show me?"

"Minerva told me you are quite good at guessing things."

The word "guessing" annoyed Harry slightly, but he tried to hide it.

"A little. But my best guess would be...some sort of plant?"

"Why—yes!" she seemed positively delighted that Harry had guessed right. "You are just like Minerva said! How did you know?"

Harry was slightly uncomfortable to share his deduction, because it was far too simple to even be called such. As he was gawking at every store in the Diagon Alley, he saw some books that had some sort of plant motif on their cover, meaning Hogwarts probably taught something about magical plants. And the woman's boots were covered in dirt. He told her as much.

"Very good! Unfortunately, you are only half right. It's related to plants, but it isn't a plant. It's a stone."

"Oh," said Harry, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. That wasn't half-right. That was fully wrong.

"Oh dear," said Professor Sprout. "Let's hurry to the carts, before a goblin notices that I'm leaving footprints behind. They wouldn't be pleased, oh they would not."

And in a bit of comical hurry, she began to move, and Harry and McGonagall followed after. Business obligations were taken care of, and Harry felt that the goblins would have stared at him for much longer than they did if McGonagall wasn't with him. Not too long after, they went through the trip to the vaults. It resembled a roller coaster more than anything else, though Harry had never been in one.

When Harry reached his vault, he could barely believe what he was seeing. There was so much gold, silver and bronze that there was a very real possibility he was richer than the Dursleys right now.

"Is this really mine?" he asked, stupefied.

"Yes, Mr. Potter, it is," said McGonagall.

What followed would later be carved in Harry's mind forever, though at the time he didn't know that. When they got to Professor Sprout's vault, she went right past her money—not nearly as much as Harry had—and grabbed a small dusty package.

"This," she told Harry, "is a Rosetta. It's a rare stone that lets some plants grow in climates they are not used to. It's not to be used lightly, but I need it to teach some of my seventh year students. Keep it a secret, okay? I want it to be a surprise for them."

Harry promptly agreed, feeling excited for being trusted with a secret—even if it didn't seem important.

Though it didn't seem important, it must be stated that it would soon turn out to be, though it would be a while until Harry realized that. After leaving Gringotts, McGonagall told Harry to go buy a wand while she handled some Hogwarts businesses.

A magic wand...it seemed so surreal, yet so within his reach. But it seemed almost commonplace compared to what the wand salesman told him after finally finding a wand that matched him.

"It's curious," he said. "That you and he are connected to such an extent...this wand, you see, it has a twin of sorts. Both it and its twin use feathers from the same phoenix. And that wand, Mr. Potter, it was the one that created that scar in your forehead."

Harry didn't know how to respond. He paid for the wand, and left to find McGonagall—or so he would have wanted. Just as the wand maker had gone to the back of the store, the door swung open and a nervous looking man came in. He stuttered repeteadly, enough times for Harry to become aware that he wore a purple turban and was sweating a lot.

"Mr. P-p-p-potter," he said, nearly falling over as he walked up to Harry. "I'm P-p-p-rofessor Quirrel."

"Nice to meet you professor," said Harry, slightly put off by the man's nervousness.

"I-I-I-I just had to see you, I'm glad I d-d-did." There was a pause, followed by a nervous laugh. "Are you-you enjoying the Diagon Alley?"

"Yes!" Harry nodded enthusiastically. "Very much sir! Do you enjoy coming to the Diagon Alley?"

"N—not...partially," he said, laughing nervously once more. "I can't stand G-g-g-g-g-gringotts and going underground..."

"Professor Sprout didn't seem to like them much either," said Harry. It wasn't entirely a lie, but it wasn't entirely the truth either. He just felt like he had to say something to make the pitiful man in front of him feel better.

"P-p-p-p-p-professor Sprout?" asked Quirrel, with something that could have been either interest or simple surprise. "S-she took something out of her vault? I—I—went to her vault with her a few days ago, she should have gotten her gold already."

"She didn't take any gold with her, just a small package."

"A package?"

Quirrel's response came so sudden and so clearly Harry nearly stumbled back for a moment. Quirrel must have noticed this, because he appeared exceptionally fragile a second later.

"Yes a st—" Harry cut himself short. "I'm sorry, I promised not to tell."

"Ah," said Quirrel, obviously disappointed. "I-I-I-I see."

Feeling the conversation was becoming far too awkward to handle, Harry said goodbye to Professor Quirrel and left to look for Professor McGonagall, completely unaware that he set Voldemort walking down the long distance of murder once more.


End file.
